


Stars May Collide

by bravebuttercups



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, F/M, Ice Skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 01:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravebuttercups/pseuds/bravebuttercups
Summary: Inspired by Olympic champions Scott Moir and Tessa Virtue. Feyre and Rhys have been ice dance partners for over 16 years, and they've gone through it all; breakups, therapy, and unexpected confessions of love, but most of all, they've never considered going through this journey with anyone else.





	1. Stars May Collide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swishandflickwit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishandflickwit/gifts).



> Written as a birthday present for my darling Cai - here's hoping that my assumptions of a secret marriage come true in real life!
> 
> This series was written out of chronological order, and is broken into sections based on the year and ice dance event.

**_(2014 - Sochi, Russia)_ **

She’s shaking, and whether it’s from the cold or from nerves, she doesn’t know. Rhys knows, though - he always knows - and runs a hand down her back before gently taking hold of her hip and turning her so she has to face him. 

“Feyre, darling, listen to me. Once we get out on that ice, it’s just us in the rink, just like practice. Nothing else matters. No one else matters.”

His voice washes over her and Feyre shuts her eyes tight for a second, nodding as Rhys pulls her close, her forehead connecting with where his shoulder meets his neck. He’s effectively shielded her from the crowd and the glare of the lights on the ice and as she breathes in the familiar smell of him, she allows herself to relax. 

“I’m good. I’m ready,” she says, and is rewarded with a wide grin before they both slip into the roles of their characters, their masks for the night as they step out onto the ice. 

Somehow, Feyre stops herself from looking out into the crowd, stops herself from seeking out a face that she knows won’t be there. She won’t dwell on it, won’t dwell on the way he had scoffed when she’d asked if he’d be cheering her on in Sochi, won’t dwell on the way he had never kept his promise about celebrating her birthday late because she’d been stuck at the rink with Rhys the day of. She won’t let Tamlin ruin this, not today. 

Instead, she focuses on Rhys. 

Rhys, with his steadfast reassurance, with his casual touches and the quick kisses he places on her cheek, her shoulder, her forehead, wherever he can reach, both on and off the ice. Rhys, along with his inner circle of friends that she knows are cheering for her as much as they are for him, with his overwhelming and unfailing support through it all. 

Feyre takes a deep breath, and then the music starts. 

-/-

They go back home with silver.

She tries not to be discouraged; they had skated what she considers their personal best, and besides, she’s always had a fondness for silver - it reminds her of their skates, the rhinestones adorning her costumes, the stars, and now, the necklace Rhys had given her on her birthday, just a few months ago. 

She’s pretty sure that was the first and only time she’d ever seen Rhys blush, him practically shoving the box at her and skating away before she’d had time to even say thank you. She’d caught up to him with ease, crashing into him from behind and wrapping her arms around his middle, and promised she’d never take it off. 

Feyre doesn’t like to think about what she’d do without him.

She’d put on her first pair of skates at the age of five in a desperate attempt to keep up with Nesta and Elain and earn their mother’s approval, and when their mother had died not two years later and both of her sisters quit, only Feyre kept with it. That was the year she’d been paired with Rhys, and she’s been stuck with the annoying prick ever since (not that she’s complaining). 

Tamlin’s look of disapproval flashes in her mind as Rhys expertly fields yet another question about their (lack of a) romantic relationship. She bites back a comment about how chemistry during a routine doesn’t always translate to chemistry in real life; Rhys has always been better with the press anyways. He starts talking about how she’s his best friend, how she’s been his best friend for all of the thirteen years they’d been skating together, when he was just a scrawny nine year old and she’d been an even scrawnier seven year old. 

“Practice must be extraordinarily time-consuming for the two of you to build the kind of chemistry you have on the ice. Do you have any tricks for getting through a particularly grueling session?” the reporter asks, and Feyre snorts as she recalls the time Rhys had shown up to practice on Halloween a few years back with bat wings and devil horns. 

“We joke a lot, especially if one of us is having a bad day, just to ease the tension,” Rhys says, nudging Feyre with his elbow as if he knows exactly what memory she’s thinking of (he probably does - sometimes she thinks he can read her mind). 

“People have noticed that you tend to be the jokester, while you, Feyre, tend to be a little more serious.”

“Feyre’s actually hilarious. I think some people would be surprised,” Rhys says before Feyre can bark out whatever sarcastic reply is on the tip of her tongue. “A lot of people know she’s a genius. She’s very smart. But she has a great drive as well. So she has a pretty good combo, fun to work with, best business partner ever."

Feyre smiles, Rhys effectively dissolving all traces of her annoyance the way that only he can. She turns her head to face the reporter, her grin suddenly slipping into something much more conspiratorial, as she says, with a dramatic sigh, “The sad thing is after thirteen years I still find Rhys hysterical. You should hear some of his puns.”

The reporter tries to mask her shock at Feyre’s quip, but Feyre doesn’t notice because her eyes are on the ridiculous faces Rhys is making.

Her eyes are always on Rhys. 

-/-

Another day, another interview. 

While Feyre tolerates these meetings and handles them with just as much professionalism, if not ease, as Rhys, today is different. Today, she’s in a bad mood. 

Today, the last thing she wants is to talk about her love life, so of course that’s the very first question she gets asked. 

She feels, more than sees, Rhys’s annoyance, because they both know how sexist this is, they’ve both noticed how she’s always the one who gets drilled about her relationship status while he gets asked the questions about the technical elements of their skating and their partnership, but he’s smart enough to let her fight her own battles. 

That doesn’t stop him from trying to come to her rescue. 

Feyre’s blindsided by the question, because  _ why in the name of the Mother does anyone care if she’s introduced Tamlin to Rhys? _ Don’t these people have  _ anything _ else to concern themselves with?

Rhys clears his throat, all too aware that Feyre is one second away from (metaphorically) ripping out the reporter’s neck. (At least, he hopes it’s metaphorically, because he’s seen how creative Feyre can get with her skates.)

“I think Feyre just tries to keep her personal life and her skating life separate. I know I personally struggle with balancing skating and a semblance of a social life.”

And just like that, Rhys redirects the journalist’s attention back towards him, giving Feyre enough time to catch her breath and cool her head. All the reporter gets after that are short, clipped answers, none of the laughing and teasing that interviews with Feyre and Rhys normally contain, none of the banter that they are known for, and she feels a small sense of smug satisfaction that the article will suffer because of it. 

That small sense of smug satisfaction disappears when Tamlin texts her about the article a few weeks later, a text which includes a line about how she should get a new skating partner because he just isn’t comfortable with her spending so much time with Rhys. 

Feyre gapes at her phone, sputtering even though Tamlin can’t see or hear her, and starts typing furiously, backtracking more than once as she tries to fully convey the sheer  _ idiocy _ her boyfriend’s rather unfortunately showcased. She starts with the fact that not a year ago, Tamlin had made a dismissive and downright homophobic comment about how all male ice skaters  _ had _ to be gay, and goes into a rant about how difficult it is to find a partner like Rhys, how much time and energy she’d have to put into cultivating that kind of chemistry with someone else, without the benefit of skating with them since childhood there to ease along the process. She skips over how, with Rhys, the connection had been instantaneous, and instead includes several paragraphs about how Tamlin has no right to dictate who she does and does not spend time with,  _ especially _ (but certainly not limited to) when it comes to her career. 

Tamlin shoots back a few paragraphs of his own, and it’s when he disparages their Sochi silver medal that she snaps and breaks up with him. 

Rhys finds her in the rink, even though it’s 5 in the morning and their practice doesn’t technically start until 7. He watches silently as she tries - and fails - to land a triple axel, and when she finally skates over to him, he presses a cup of coffee into her hand and a kiss to her forehead and doesn’t ask any questions. Instead, he grabs her phone and opens up her playlist (his had been the first fingerprint programmed in when she’d caved and finally upgraded), and plucks the still steaming cup of coffee from her hand. Feyre opens her mouth to protest, but then  _ Stay _ by Rihanna comes on and she’s rolling her eyes but taking his hand nonetheless. 

He lets her skate out her frustration and heartbreak, and at the end of their routine, when they’re pressed flush against each other and they’re both trying to catch their breath, Feyre allows herself to reflect on the unexplainable, natural, instinctual connection between her and Rhys for quite possibly the first time ever. 

-/-

**_(2018 - Pyeongchang County, South Korea)_ **

This time, they’re the favorites to win gold. 

Feyre tries to focus on that instead of the flip in her stomach every time Rhys lifts her so that her legs hang over his shoulders, her hands cupping his face for the briefest of seconds before he’s whirling her back towards solid ground again. They had agreed together - always together - that the original move was a bit too suggestive for an Olympic audience and decided to tone it down, but even the edited version is enough to leave Feyre aching with want. 

Ironic, considering how much praise they’d received for all of their unbridled chemistry on the ice for the entirety of their professional career, emphasis being  _ on the ice _ . 

She’s struggling to slow her heart rate down when she glides to a stop in front of their coach, affectionately known as  _ tiny ancient one _ , and while Amren is small in stature, Feyre has no doubt she can still out-skate the majority of the Olympians competing this year. 

There’s a light touch on her waist, followed by Rhys suddenly appearing by her side and tugging her closer to him until her head is on his chest and his nose is in her hair. Their runthrough of their routine had been absolutely flawless, and she’s just as proud of him as she knows he is of her. Amren leaves them to it, muttering about how they’re disgusting and complaining about their unprofessionalism without any real heat behind her words. Feyre feels more than hears Rhys chuckle and presses even closer. 

“Careful, or you’ll prove all of the conspiracy theories about us being secretly married right,” Rhys teases, even as his hands ghost over her sides and he kisses the top of her head. 

Feyre chokes out a laugh and catches one of his hands, interlocking his fingers with hers as she leads him out of the rink. “They  _ are _ right, prick.”

“Yes, but  _ they  _ don’t know that.”

-/-

They break the world record and the first thing Rhys does is launch himself onto the barrier of the rink because  _ tradition is important, Feyre darling. _

It’s a close call between them and the team from France, but they’ve done it, they’ve won a gold medal, and now they can finally relax.

After the press interviews, of course.

But Feyre feels like she is  _ flying _ , and not even the most obnoxious reporter can bring her down. Rhys peppers her face with kisses once they’ve both got their guards on, and while he keeps it chaste in front of the cameras, she sees the intent in his eyes as he makes his way to her neck just long enough to let her know what his plans are once they’re safely back in their room (his room, technically, because no one knows about the rings tucked away in her makeup bag and locked up in the safe, but what the officials and the public don’t know won’t hurt them). 

The first thing everyone does is congratulate them on their spellbinding performance, a few reporters purposefully mentioning the way they’d both sung the words to  _ Moulin Rouge _ as they skated their personal best. It’s Feyre who laughs away this comment, informing everyone that it’s a good thing nobody else could hear Rhys while they were on the ice, because for all of his talent interpreting and being moved by music, her partner is hopelessly tone-deaf. 

“You two have previously called the other your best friend in interviews - what’s it like skating with someone who knows you better than you know yourself?”

“She’s a pretty fantastic person,” Rhys says, positively beaming at Feyre while she ducks her head. “I would never even think about skating with someone else. She’s my partner, my equal in every way.”

Feyre thinks that’s the end, and it’s pretty obvious from the way the flashes of cameras start going off that the media had thought so too. 

“She’s creative, from the beginning of time,” Rhys continues, either completely oblivious to the blush rising in Feyre’s cheeks or actively ignoring it. “She can move like nobody I’ve ever seen. She's very, very selfless; she's a people pleaser. But my favourite things I think have really just gotten even better in the last couple of years and that's her drive, that's her commitment to being an athlete.”

“Rhys, you’re known for only ever having good things to say about your partner, but Feyre, you’re usually a little more reserved in your interviews. What do you have to say about Rhys?”

“Rhys is the most disciplined, driven athlete I've ever met. There's a fierce competitor deep within and the passion and the raw talent that is there — the ability to move and hear music and interpret it — is unlike anyone else I've ever seen on the ice,” Feyre admits, and she means every word. Rhys is surprised, and he’s never surprised, so she plows on. “And I think because he wears his heart on his sleeve people feel so drawn in and captivated by his performances. He's generous, thoughtful and extremely insightful. He's able to understand the glide of the blade differently. It’s been amazing to live this Olympic journey with my best friend.”

Rhys twines his fingers with hers and pulls her hand up to his mouth, pressing a lingering kiss to it as the photographers snap as many pictures as they can. 

“Someone pointed out a while back that you always hug each other before every routine, without fail. Is that to calm nerves, reassure each other?”

“That’s actually something we’ve done for several years now really just to feel our timing together, find that synchronicity and get our breathing in unison. Just really to feel that connection and to emphasize the chemistry and togetherness that we hope to create on the ice,” Feyre says, more than happy to answer a question about something other than her feelings about Rhys. 

“Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say you certainly achieved that. Congratulations again.”

Feyre and Rhys thank everybody and pose for a few more pictures, and when they get their medals and he kisses her temple, she knows that’s the image that’s going to make the headlines. 

-/-

“So I’m generous, am I, Feyre darling?”  


Feyre rolls her eyes and threads her fingers through Rhys’s hair, tugging his head back down against her thigh as she squirms underneath him.

“Don’t make me seem like a liar now.”

Rhys’s chuckle is low as he finds her free hand and takes it in his, the gold glint of their wedding bands shining in the dark. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, wife.” 


	2. Off Season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Rhys's POV, and features these idiots falling in love over the course of their careers.

**_(2009 - California, USA)_ **

Rhys is seventeen when he first realizes that he’s in love with Feyre. 

It happens as he’s pacing back and forth in a hospital corridor, his father looking as though he’s made of stone in a chair in the waiting area. Mor is there too, and Cassian and Azriel, but none of them dare to approach him, not when he’s like this. Not when he’s not sure if his mother and sister are going to make it through the night, not when he blames himself for the car accident. 

When Feyre bursts into the room with Amren not far behind, he doesn’t miss the way his friends simultaneously sigh in relief. 

She’s cupping his face in her hands before he can really register that she’s there in front of him. He’s always known that Feyre is strong, stronger than anyone he knows, but it’s when his knees buckle and she’s the only thing keeping him standing that he understands how much of his strength comes from hers. 

A sob escapes him as Feyre wraps her arms around his neck and squeezes, his head falling to her shoulder as he holds her just as tightly. 

“It’s my fault, it’s all my fault, and now they’re - we don’t know if they’ll -” 

Feyre leans back just enough to look at him, a sharp tug on Rhys’s hair forcing him to do the same. 

“Stop it,” she says firmly, their noses brushing and steel in her eyes. “It is not your fault.”

“If they hadn’t been on their way to the competition, they wouldn’t be here now,” Rhys whispers. “It’s my fault for wanting them to be there.”

“It’s not,” Feyre repeats, her tone leaving little room for argument. “They wanted to be there. They wanted to see you at Worlds. They wanted to support you, just like they always have. They would  _ not _ want you to blame yourself, Rhysand.”

She never calls him Rhysand, and the novelty of hearing her say his full name shocks him enough to stop the tears from falling. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do if they don’t make it.” He can see the way his admission breaks something in her, remembers the fierce and determined seven year old she’d been when they’d first met, completely driven by her desperation to honor her mother’s memory. And he knows she’s remembering, too. 

“They will make it,” Feyre says, her eyes daring Rhys to try and challenge the statement. He’s smart enough to know when to pick his battles with Feyre, so he just nods and buries his face back in her neck, and catches himself  _ smelling _ her. 

That’s when he knows he’s screwed.

-/-

They miss out on going to the Olympics the next year.

Rhys is convinced that it’s his fault, even as Feyre scoffs and says they wouldn’t have made it anyway. They’re too young, too inexperienced, and she’d have barely made the age cutoff. A pair consisting of a sixteen year old and an eighteen year old weren’t ready for the Olympics. She doubts they would have qualified. 

Rhys knows better, because as young as they are and as naive as their routines may be, their chemistry is what has made them so competitive, enough that they’d won gold at Worlds 2010. Even Amren makes a comment on how much Rhys, at least, has seemed to mature now that he’s legally an adult, but what no one knows is that he’s not faking the look in his eyes when he’s skating with Feyre. 

Feyre, with her unbelievable artistry, her endless creativity and her effortless beauty. Feyre, who is far too good for him. 

So he settles for using their performances as a crutch, for passing off the kisses he presses to her cheeks as elation over medaling, and he does what he can to mask the fact that she has very unintentionally stolen his heart. 

And he starts acting like an ass because of it. 

Feyre, observant as ever, notices the drastic change in his attitude when they’re not on the ice, and doesn’t shy away from calling him out whenever he makes a particularly inappropriate comment. Rhys is careful about his delivery of the lewd jokes and suggestive winks, because if Feyre thinks he’s just trying to mess with her, she won’t notice the longing he fails to hide no matter how hard he tries. 

-/-

**_(2014 - Sochi, Russia)_ **

Rhys is pretty sure that Amren lives to torture him, because what other reason would she have to ensure that his and Feyre’s rooms are adjoining? He scowls at her knowing smirk, at the unvoiced challenge even as he picks up Feyre’s bag along with his own and walks away before she can say anything. 

It’s his fault, really, for not noticing that Amren hadn’t yet left the rink when Mor had picked him up from practice one day. 

Feyre had just started dating Tamlin, and the sight of her practically glowing with happiness was almost enough to make him nauseous. She’d left barely a second after Amren had announced they were done for the day, running out the door - to  _ him _ \- without even saying goodbye to Rhys. When Mor walked up to the rink and chewed him out for not responding to her texts, all he could say was  _ she’s it. Feyre’s it _ .

Mor, of course, had had no idea what he was talking about, and she’d had to poke and prod until he’d finally admitted that he was in love with Feyre, and his soulmate was dating someone else. 

And now his own  _ coach _ is trying to goad him into ruining any shot of making it onto the podium they have, because that’s what he would be doing if he told Feyre. 

Feyre goes to sleep fairly early; she always has trouble sleeping before a major competition, and the Olympics are on a whole other level. Her hand trails across his shoulders as she bids everyone goodnight, her fingers pausing to toy with the hair on the nape of his neck before she’s gone. 

Mother help him. 

He’s not sure if it’s because his nerves are fried or if it’s because he’s so in sync with Feyre that even their sleeping patterns align, but Rhys continues to twist and turn in his bed well into the night. He knows he’ll regret it in the morning and that his exhaustion may very well be their downfall during their free skate, and he curses himself for letting his emotions get the best of him -  _ again _ . 

He’s debating calling his mother and venting all of his frustrations to her when he hears it - a muffled whimper from beyond the door to Feyre’s room. 

Rhys is up and on his feet before he can stop himself, no hesitation in the few strides it takes for him to be at Feyre’s side. She’s curled up into herself, completely dwarfed by the large mattress, and it hits Rhys just how  _ small _ she is. 

He’s always considered her petite - most ice dancers are - but he’s never allowed himself to contemplate how breakable she is, not when her resilience is what enables them to be great. 

“Feyre.” Rhys’s voice is soft, his touch tentative as he perches on the edge of her bed and places a hand on her shoulder. “Feyre, wake up.”

He waits until her eyes open and focus on his face, her mouth opening slightly and forming the shape of his name, and brushes tendrils of sweat-coated hair behind her ear. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Feyre takes a deep breath and shakes her head, her hand coming up to cover Rhys’s own on her cheek. “I think it’s just nerves. I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” Rhys says, frowning. “What can I do?”

Silence, and then - 

“Will you stay with me?”

Rhys hesitates but nods, carefully laying down next to Feyre and arranging himself so that they aren’t touching. It’s not as though they’ve never slept in the same bed before - he remembers being seventeen years old, curling around Feyre as if she was the only thing anchoring him to reality as they waited for news about his mother and sister. He supposes that in a way, she was. 

Feyre tugs on the sleeve of his shirt, a silent question and demand in the small gesture. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t use words, but Rhys complies anyway, rolling over onto his side until the curves of her body neatly fold into his. He grumbles a bit as she tucks one of her legs between his, her ice cold feet eliciting a flinch from him that makes her snort and say, “Figure skating baby.”

“Go to sleep, smartass.”

Feyre feels like she was made to fit into his arms, but he knows she’s (somewhat) blissfully in a relationship with Tamlin, and he thinks he can be okay with that.

This can be enough. Holding Feyre for one night can be enough. Whatever she wants to give him  _ is _ enough.

He almost believes it.

-/-

Rhys’s amount of self-control should be praised. Hell, he should get a medal for it, because the only thing stopping him from beating the hell out of Tamlin is the fact that he  _ knows _ Feyre would never forgive him. 

She deserves so much better. 

He says as much to Mor, who promptly smacks him on the arm and outright  _ orders _ him to tell Feyre how he feels. He can’t, though, not when she’s devastated over Tamlin, not when her first real relationship has ended and she needs time to heal. No, he’ll wait.

For Feyre, he would wait a thousand years and more.

-/-

Amren decides that they’re ready to try out more advanced choreography, and sends them off to Tarquin to practice off the ice, but she doesn’t forget to add a quip about how maybe, with some new moves in their repertoire and a bit more maturity, they can come home from Pyeongchang with gold instead of silver - that is, if they qualify again. 

Feyre and Rhys roll their eyes simultaneously. Ever the motivational speaker, their darling coach. 

Rhys struggles with the new lifts, even as Tarquin insists that they’re nothing he can handle. Besides, the choreographer says, Feyre’s even smaller than she was before Sochi. 

Rhys freezes and stares at Feyre, taking in her thin wrists, her gaunt face, and her flat stomach - flat not from working out, but from not eating enough. He manages to contain his worry until Tarquin snaps that he should return when he’s ready to bring all of his focus and lets them go, muttering about a lack of discipline as Rhys all but hauls Feyre out of the room. He doesn’t say a word as he bundles her into his car and drives straight to the nearest diner, where he promptly orders both of them burgers, fries, and chocolate milk. 

Feyre just stares at him in disbelief, but he refuses to say anything until their food is in front of them. Rhys makes a point to immediately start eating his burger, taking obnoxiously big bites that he knows will have Feyre scrunching up her nose in distaste, but if shoving food into his mouth is what it takes to keep him from sighing in relief when Feyre starts picking at her fries, then so be it. 

This’ll be their thing from now on, Rhys decides. Once a week, every week, they’ll come to this diner, and he’ll make damn sure that Feyre eats. 

He’ll do anything to keep her from looking like this -  _ hollow _ and so, so unbelievably sad - ever again.

-/-

The color slowly starts to return to Feyre’s cheeks, the bags under her eyes fading a little every week while Rhys does impersonations of announcers at competitions and keeps a dutiful watch on her food intake, texting her every day to say good morning and ask how she slept the night before. Slowly but surely, she starts to come back to life. 

Maybe it’s relief, or maybe it’s the extra hours Rhys starts putting into the gym at Cassian’s insistence, but a few weeks after Tarquin chews them out and banishes them from his studio, Rhys is finally able to execute the lift. 

It’s awkward, and nowhere near perfect, but it’s semi-successful and that’s all that matters, especially when he sets Feyre back on the ground and she smiles again. 

It’s the first time that he’s seen her really, truly smile since her break-up with Tamlin, and Rhys is pretty sure he forgets to breathe. 

Feyre notices - of course she notices - and tilts her head to the side, but Rhys is already whispering, “Smile again.” And she knows exactly what he’s talking about, because she always does, and this time, the smile she gives him is free and unrestrained and full of affection. 

“Save me from these two,” Tarquin mutters, and Rhys thinks he’s talking to himself until he hears Amren’s far-too amused voice from the doorway. 

“Finally. I’ve been waiting for you fools to realize you’re in love with each other for years. Looks like you managed to get it together after all, Rhysand.”

Rhys stills and wonders if he can get away with murdering his coach as confusion crosses Feyre’s face. 

“What are you talking about?” she asks, turning to frown at Amren.

Amren, to her credit, merely blinks. “I must have made a mistake. Think nothing of it. I’ll see the both of you at the rink tomorrow.” And then she’s gone, with Tarquin not far behind. 

Cowards, the both of them. 

“You love me?”

Rhys takes in the furrow of Feyre’s brow, the slight downturn of his mouth, and wonders what the odds are of a black hole appearing and swallowing him up. He swallows hard, manages to nod and chokes out, “Yes.”

Feyre nods as if she’s considering what he’s saying, and her frown deepens. “How long?”

He doesn’t want to tell her, doesn’t want to admit how much of a coward  _ he _ had been, but Feyre repeats the question. 

“How long, Rhysand.”

“Since I was seventeen.”

Yes, a black hole would be good right about now.

“And you never told me?” Feyre’s words are quiet, calm, even, which only frightens Rhys more. 

“I-”

Feyre turns and leaves without a word, and no matter how many times Rhys calls her name, she doesn’t look back.

-/-

He doesn’t expect her to show up at practice the next day, and he isn’t sure if he’s relieved or terrified to see her when she does. Amren informs them that they’ll be testing the new lift on the ice, and that they don’t get to leave until it is close to perfect.

It is nowhere near perfect.

Feyre is stiff in his arms, and Rhys’s hands are tentative as he grips her waist. She looks acutely uncomfortable every time, and he knows he must be blushing furiously even as Amren lets out a long suffering sigh. 

“We’ll try this again tomorrow. Arrive ready to work your asses off.”

They try again the next day. And the day after. And the day after that. 

By the end of the week, Rhys isn’t sure who’s the most frustrated: him, Feyre, or Amren. 

Incidentally, it’s Amren, from the way she lets Rhys and Feyre know that they’re going to therapy instead of training tomorrow.

“I don’t care what you do or how you do it, all I know is that you don’t stand a chance in hell of getting back to the Olympics if you don’t fix whatever shitstorm is going on between the two of you. So  _ fix it _ .”

-/-

Rhys has never been to therapy before, and he knows that plenty of ice dance partners go to therapy to work out any problems in their professional relationships, but he’s not sure how many of them go to a marriage counselor to do so.

Amren, it seems, has a very unique sense of humor. 

“Let’s start with while we’re here, shall we?” Helion says, and Rhys can see Feyre turn to look at him so that they can scoff at the psychologist together before she catches herself and fixes her attention back on the carpet. 

“Your coach mentioned that the two of you are having some issues on the ice. She provided her theories as to why this is happening, but I’d love to hear from both of you what your take on it is. Feyre, why don’t you start?”

“I’d rather not.”

“How about you, Rhysand?”

Rhys clears his throat, and only the threat hanging over him of Amren ripping his throat open with his own skates makes him answer. “Uh, our chemistry is off. We’re not working well together for lifts, we’re out of sync during our step sequences, we’re not breathing or moving together. Not exactly ideal for ice dance partners.”

“What do you think is the reason for your chemistry being off?”

“Um."

Eyes on the ceiling and arms folded across her chest, Feyre says, “Rhys has been in love with me for five years and never bothered to tell me, and I doubt he would have told me if Amren hadn’t slipped up.”

“I would’ve told you,” Rhys mutters. “Eventually.” 

Feyre simply shoots him a glare in response. 

“I’m sensing a little animosity here. Feyre, maybe it would help if Rhys told you why he kept his feelings a secret all those years.”

“I’m actually curious as to why he continued to date so many other women if he was supposedly in love with me the whole time. How was I supposed to know how he felt when he was dating someone new almost every other month?” Feyre’s tone is sharp, but Rhys can see the genuine curiosity she’s trying to hide, and maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he thinks he catches a glimmer of hurt, too. 

“Rhys, what do you have to say? Why all of the short-term relationships? What prompted you to break it off with them each time?”

Rhys leans back, but he makes sure that Feyre is looking at him when he says, “They weren’t Feyre.”

-/-

Rhys can’t remember the last time he’s ever felt this awkward at a press conference. Normally he tease Feyre and make jokes laden with innuendo to ease any sense of anxiety he might feel, but he can’t bring himself to do it, not today. 

Not when she’s still shying away from his touch. Not when Amren asks how their session went and all Feyre does is blush. Not when she refuses to look him in the eye.

He’s in a foul mood, and he’d feel bad that the reporters are all directing their questions at Feyre if he wasn’t experiencing overwhelming relief at not having to discuss their non-existent relationship. 

“Feyre, let me just say that I was sorry to hear about the end of your previous relationship.”

Unprofessional. So, very unprofessional that Rhys doesn’t attempt to mask his glower at the reporter. Feyre, however, is completely unfazed, as if she’d been expecting this exact comment - she probably had. He wouldn’t know, because she won’t talk to him. 

“Thank you,” Feyre says politely, arching an eyebrow as if to ask the reporter,  _ and your point is? _

“You don’t generally say much about your personal life, but I was hoping to hear what your ideal type of guy is.”

Rhys bumps his knee against hers on instinct, an automatic reaction to seeing her tense at the intrusion of her privacy, and no small part of him relaxes when she does. 

“I wouldn’t say that I have an ideal type of guy, but…” Feyre pauses, and Rhys feels her hand wrap around his under the table, hidden from the flash of the cameras and the ever-observant, hawk-eyed reporters. “I think it’s safe to say that Rhys is the standard.”

He stops breathing, and while he faintly remembers answering a few questions during the rest of the conference, it’s not until they’re safely backstage that he thinks he breathes again. 

“I meant it,” Feyre says. She hasn’t let go of his hand yet, had held onto it as if she realized the impact her words had had on him, and squeezes it now, pulling him into a secluded corner for a moment of peace before their manager Lucien is shuffling them back to the car. 

“I was being stupid,” Feyre continues, and Rhys’s gaze drifts from their joined hands to the small, shy smile on her face. “I think I was more mad at myself for not realizing how you felt, how  _ I _ felt, than I ever was at you.  _ You _ are the standard, Rhysand, and I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

Rhys just gapes at her, because he’s long since resigned himself to the fact that Feyre only sees him as a friend, resigned himself to savoring being by her side and not daring to hope for more. There’s sorrow in Feyre’s eyes, too, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking as she reaches up to cup his face in her hands, and her next words shatter him. 

“You are my best friend,” she whispers, thumbing away the tears sliding down his face. “My best friend in the entire world, and I can’t believe it’s taken me this much time to realize that my soulmate has been beside me all along. I am broken, and healing - healing because of  _ you _ \- but every single piece of me is yours, if you’ll have me.”

“Do you even have to ask?” Rhys manages to ask, and is rewarded with Feyre’s laugh - his favorite sound in the whole world. He tilts his head down until his forehead is pressed against hers, their noses brushing, and says, “I love you.”

Feyre smiles, and he revels in the way even her eyes light up. “I love you too.”

-/-

Amren knows better than to ask questions when their synchronicity and chemistry is back in full force on the ice, and finds not so subtle ways to leave the rink, faking phone calls and a newfound aversion to the cold even though she’s notorious for having ice in her veins. 

She’s being completely transparent, but Rhys doesn’t care, not as he swings Feyre around, his hands sliding down her back not as support, but rather a promise for what’s to come as her skates touch the ice. 

Pyeongchang, here they come. And this time, they’re going for gold.


	3. Long Time Running

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming on this journey with me, Rhys, and Feyre - this is their swan song.

**_(2017 - Helsinki, Finland)_ **

If Rhys had to pick, he’d say that his favorite part about Feyre is her hands. Small, delicate, gentle, and somehow devoid of calluses despite so many hours out on the ice - artist’s hands. Artist’s hands, which are currently digging into his back as she begs him to go faster, harder, deeper. 

Yes, he loves Feyre’s hands. 

He tells her as much in the dead of night, when they should be sleeping but have instead chosen to tangle themselves up in each other and talk in hushed voices. They’ve long since turned their backs on the myth that a good night’s rest can be equated with a flawless performance, despite Amren’s numerous warnings and poorly veiled threats. 

“My hands? Really?  _ That’s _ your favorite body part of mine?”

Rhys lets his eyes drift down with intent, trailing a finger down Feyre’s arm as he does so, and when he meets her incredulous stare, he smirks. “I could be persuaded to reconsider.”

“Ass,” Feyre says, but she’s laughing even as she rolls her eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Rhys’s smile softens to something sweeter as he snakes an arm around Feyre’s waist and pulls her closer. “I know I am.”

“You put on a good front to the rest of the world, but I see you, Rhys, and I know you’re a big sap at heart,” Feyre says, grinning as she presses a kiss to his shoulder and his mouth drops in indignation. 

“Don’t blow my cover.”

Feyre snorts. “Please. Everyone knows I’m the head and you’re the heart.”

“Funny, considering you have the biggest heart I’ve ever known,” Rhys says, tilting his forehead down to rest against hers. 

“See? Sap,” Feyre teases, and Rhys chooses not to respond, opting instead to trace kisses down her neck, past her collarbone and below her ribcage, chuckling when she fists a hand through his hair and tilts her hips up in silent demand. 

“Are you sure you want to play this game, Feyre darling?” Feyre huffs and Rhys doesn’t even attempt to smother his laugh. “Are you willing to risk Amren’s wrath if we don’t show up to Worlds bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”

“That’s a risk I’m more than willing to take.”

“Oh, I can tell.”

“ _ Rhysand _ .”

“Your wish is my command,” Rhys says, then adds, “if you make a deal with me.”

“You’re insufferable,” Feyre sighs. “What’ll it be this time?”

“And  _ you’re _ certainly accommodating. How about this - if I can get you to break character tomorrow out on the ice, I get to have some fun with the press.”

“You and your mind games.” Feyre bites her lip and tries not to nod too eagerly. “Fine,  _ if _ you can get me to drop my mask - and I highly doubt that - you have my full permission to tease the press about our relationship as much as you want.”

Rhys’s grin is positively predatory in the moonlight. “It’s a bargain.”

-/-

He wins, in the end, and not by playing dirty - quite the opposite, really. Feyre expects him to whisper innuendos in her ear and allow his hands to drift during their performance, erring on the safe side, but just barely.

She does not expect him to try and sing to her. 

It’s awful. It is well and truly awful, and Feyre wonders how someone as beautiful as Rhys can produce such an ugly sound. Still, that doesn’t stop her from slipping out of character just long enough to grin at him as they skate across the ice. 

She has a feeling she’ll have an even harder time remaining stoic at their press conference later in the day. 

It had been their manager Lucien’s idea to keep their relationship a secret, a decision he’d made with Amren, and that meant there was little room for discussion. It added to the allure, to the mystery, he’d said, and over the years, the question of their relationship status had become a part of Feyre and Rhys’ brand. 

Funnily enough, for all of his extensive media training, it’s Rhys who slips up the most often, who can’t help himself from making the odd remark that goes viral and gets scrutinized on every social media platform imaginable. Feyre is known as the one who manages to remain strictly professional during every single interview, and the only thing known to make her crack is when Rhys starts to get self-deprecating. She can’t help the way her voice drops, the way her eyes soften, as she reassures him, any more than he can help the way he looks at her with his heart in his eyes. 

Feyre doesn’t consider it a bad thing, not when she watches the interviews and turns to make a comment to Rhys, and he’s staring at her like she holds the world in her hands. 

She prefers the more informal interviews, feels more free to be herself and give genuine answers when she’s still on the ice, and it helps that she likes the reporter now. 

Rhys is talking about his fall during their performance when he suddenly pulls her to his side and says, “You aren’t supposed to pull me up like that, by the way.”   


“I didn’t!” Feyre protests, laughing. “I didn’t do anything.”

“So there’s talk that you actually made some comment to him?” Devlon, the reporter, isn’t one of Feyre’s favorites, but she appreciates the way he manages to find the balance between being professional and friendly, and that he never inquires too much about whatever personal relationship he thinks Feyre and Rhys have. 

“I think I just said something  _ oh, very dramatic _ ,” Feyre says, grinning at Rhys. “Which he is, by the way.”

“Yeah I think just sometimes I have a bad temper and it’s hard for me to bounce back, and I was so mad at myself, but then Feyre had a joke for me right away and gave me a squeeze on the arm and she was able to make me regain my focus and get back on track.”

“Well, you were fantastic anyway,” Devlon reassures Rhys. 

Feyre nods in agreement, and this time, it’s her eyes that soften as she looks at Rhys. “He is, he always is.”

-/-

She’s pretty sure that Rhys has somehow managed to bribe their coach, because Feyre refuses to consider the possibility that Amren has come up with this plan on her own. Marriage counseling before they’d gotten together was one thing, but having them play the  _ newlywed game _ ?

She finds herself wondering if Rhys had had to buy Amren a necklace made of rubies to pull this off. 

It’s not so bad, for what it’s worth. Feyre even has fun while they play the game, whiteboards in front of them as their host asks them questions. And when Rhys is asked, without looking, what her eye color is, and his response is immediate, “blue; gorgeous blue,” her heart melts a little. 

It’s funny how even though she’s only been wearing it for a month, the finger on her left hand feels naked without her wedding ring. She’s already gotten into the habit of twisting the band around when she gets nervous or flustered, and settles instead for running her thumb over her latest tattoo instead. 

It was Rhys’s idea, when Feyre’d admitted to him that she hated having to take her ring off whenever they were in the public eye - which, as national sweethearts, is often. He’d all but dragged her to their tattoo parlor of choice, and had graciously volunteered to go first and have Bryaxis ink Feyre’s initials on the side of Rhys’s index finger. A reminder, he’d said, that while they didn’t need material things to remind them of the commitment they’d made to each other, theirs was a bond that could never be broken. 

Feyre has to remind herself not to smile at the memory, even as Rhys purposefully answers the question about how many tattoos she has incorrectly. 

“I actually have five now,” Feyre says to the camera, laughing at the way Rhys expertly manages to look both shocked and indignant. “The fifth is pretty recent.”

“I’ll have to look for it later,” Rhys remarks, dutifully erasing his answer from the whiteboard. She doesn’t react, even though their host does; if she doesn’t react, then their fans won’t read too much into what they’d pass off as Rhys’s offhand comment. 

She’ll wipe the smug smile off of her husband’s face later. 

“Who is more likely to sleep in and miss practice?”

Feyre only takes a second to write down her answer, flipping her board to face the camera and grinning when Rhys says he needs more time. She hugs her whiteboard to her chest and waits, and they reveal their answers together. 

“Me. Anything sleep related is me,” Feyre says, grinning. 

“If you get to sleep,” Rhys says, eyes downcast as he cleans his board. “Sometimes you’re just so restless.”

Feyre tries to let this comment pass by, even as she sits up and straightens her jacket in discomfort, but there’s no way people are going to dismiss this particular admission.

“I’ve read,” Rhys adds, and the poor attempt at a save has Feyre’s head snapping up to look at him, her smile still in place. 

They go through more mundane questions, like when her birthday is, who’s more likely to stub a toe at practice, what Feyre’s favorite meal is (and, upon revealing their answers, she realizes that Rhys’s is much more accurate than her own), and aside from the question about the speeding ticket (which Feyre manages to win in the end), they’re so in sync that the host stops them as they’re leaving to double check and make sure they’re not actually married. 

Feyre sort of feels bad for deceiving the poor woman, but honestly, she’s having a lot more fun than she’d anticipated. 

“It seems as though I’m not the only one who enjoys mind games,” Rhys says, smirking even as he keeps his attention on the road. 

“Smirk all you want, but I’m getting you back for that sleep comment later.”

Rhys’s smile drops and he swallows hard, and this time, it’s Feyre’s turn to be smug.

-/-

**_(2018 - Pyeongchang County, South Korea)_ **

Feyre is a saint. 

Rhys decides this when she tells him that she’ll go to practice for the exhibition gala for both of them so that he can attend the hockey game and cheer on Cassian, and both Azriel and Mor are inclined to agree. 

She’s nervous as they skate out onto the ice for their solo piece, face paler than usual even as she turns her smile on him, a smile that Rhys believes can light up even the darkest of nights. He’s too far away to reach out and physically reassure her, so he waits until her gaze meets his and mouths the words, “Just us, Fey.”

Her smile doesn’t waver, but he thinks that he can see it in her eyes, now, too. 

This is their swan song.

To her credit, Feyre’s performance is flawless. Rhys has never seen her be so free on the ice, not in front of an audience, and she is absolutely breathtaking. Not for the first time, he’s struck by how much he adores her, how much he cherishes all of the years he’s had with her, even when they’d both tried to deny anything more for fear of what it’d do to their partnership. 

He’d go through all of it again, just to be with her. 

At the end, when the crowd is standing and the applause is near-deafening, when their foreheads are pressed together and all he has to do to kiss her is tilt his chin up, he tells her, “You were worth the wait.”

There are tears in Feyre’s eyes when they pull apart, and Rhys is the one who brushes them away as they leave the rink. 

“I love you,” she says, as soon as they manage to find some reprieve from the intrusion of the cameras. 

“I’ve loved you since the first moment I saw you tie Cassian’s skates together because he was being an asshole,” Rhys says, kissing her nose even as Feyre chuckles. 

“You did not.”   


“Okay, I loved you as much as an eleven year old could love anyone, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Rhys amends, responding to Feyre’s patronizing smile by sticking his tongue out at her. 

Feyre laughs and pats his cheek. “Very mature.”

“I may be an old man compared to you, but I make up for it in spirit.”

“Oh, I’m aware.”

“Smartass.”

“And proud of it.”

-/-

Rhys remembers how much Feyre had loved  _ The Greatest Showman _ when he’d taken her to see it for her birthday, how she’d immediately downloaded the soundtrack after the movie had ended and blasted it on repeat for weeks after, until finally they’d both caved and she’d crafted a medley they could skate to, just to get it out of their systems. 

It’s fitting that their last Olympic skate is to a song from their new favorite movie, and it almost makes Rhys feel bad that he’s completely botching the choreography. 

It’s easy when it’s just him with Feyre, when he can rely on their innate ability to be in sync with each other and reading her cues is as natural to him as breathing. It’s when he’s trying to dance amidst the entire group that he starts to fumble. 

Feyre, on the other hand, is in her element, and his potential embarrassment is a cross he’s willing to bear when she looks over, sees him struggling, and laughs. She grins at him, free and uninhibited, and winks. 

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

-/-

He’s a little concerned when she admits that she’s not feeling well, because Feyre never admits when she’s not feeling well. 

Rhys distinctly remembers when Feyre had been seventeen with a 38 degree fever and she’d still shown up to practice. Only a threat from Amren to call Nesta had sent Feyre home. 

Nesta tends to have that effect on people. 

They’re supposed to take a photo with all of the other Olympic gold medalists, so Rhys tells Feyre to stay where she is and picks out Kallias and Nuan from the crowd. It doesn’t take much to convince them to follow, and Feyre shoots him a grateful smile before the flashes of the cameras start going off. Still, his worry doesn’t fade, but Feyre reassures him that she’s fine, that all she needs is to get back to their room and get some sleep and she’ll be right as rain. 

He can’t hide his anxiety in the safety of their room, but he helps Feyre take the pins out of her hair and take her makeup and costume off, and waits until she’s burrowed under the covers in a pair of his old sweatpants and a team shirt before he so much as mentions it. 

“Rhys, I’m fine, really,” Feyre says, keeping her eyes closed even as she grabs his hand and tugs him down until he’s wrapped around her, his chin fitting into the crook of her neck as he presses a kiss to her jaw. 

“You weren’t feeling well after the group skate,” he protests, wrapping his arm a little tighter around her middle. “Was it the lifts? You normally don’t get dizzy from those but I wasn’t as careful as I normally am.”

“It wasn’t the lifts,” Feyre says. Her voice is meant to soothe, as are the idle patterns she’s tracing onto his hand, and Rhys allows himself to breathe her in, nuzzling a bit into her hair as he finally relaxes. 

“You’d tell me if anything was wrong?”

“Wouldn’t have to. You’d probably sniff it out somehow.” 

Rhys can’t help the snort that escapes him. “But you’re sure you’re okay.” 

Despite it not being a question, Feyre detects the inquiry in Rhys’s words and twists in his arms, reaching up to brush a few stray strands of hair out of his eyes. “I’m more than okay.”

-/-

Rhys finally lets himself believe that there had been nothing wrong with Feyre back in Pyeongchang, but only after he insists on her seeing a doctor and she agrees, far more readily than he’d been expecting. 

Nothing had been wrong, Rhys thinks as Feyre confirms the news with the doctor, but something is wonderfully, perfectly and extraordinarily  _ right _ . 

“How soon do you think is too soon to teach our baby how to skate?” Rhys muses as they walk back to the car, Feyre’s fingers intertwined with his. 

Feyre turns to look at him in disbelief. “You’re not freaked out by this?”

“No, why would I be?”

“Well, we’re supposed to go on tour, for one, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to hide a pregnancy bump for too long. The press doesn’t even know we’re married, Rhys.”

Rhys pauses for a second, taking Feyre’s other hand so she’s forced to face him. “Are you - I know it’s a bad time, but...this is good news, right?”

Feyre smiles, a little hesitant, but genuine and blissful nonetheless. “This is very good news.”

“Good, because I am going to have the time of my  _ life _ dropping hints to everyone and watching them scramble to try and find confirmation.”

“Cruel, wicked thing,” Feyre says, and hearing her use his personal favorite term of endearment only further contributes to Rhys’s feeling of elation. 

“Are you ready for our next great adventure, Feyre darling?”

Feyre turns and starts walking again, her hand never leaving Rhys’s. “And all the rest.”


End file.
